


Mood Rings

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Angst, Domestic Violence, Drabbles, Fluff, Gender Issues, M/M, Self-Harm, This thing has it all, dub-con, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Around 130 unrelated stories based on the mood list on livejournal. Various pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Accomplished

Mistakes happen, and Rob knows he can’t expect everybody to know. So he doesn’t complain when the wardrobe girl brings him lace-up shoes.

And although he doesn’t expect everybody to remember everything he does expect his band mates to notice when he manages to tie his own shoe laces.

But of course, they don’t.

When he walks into the green room Brad is drunk already with Chester sitting timidly at his side. Mike is crying and being comforted by Dave and Joe. And any other day Rob would ask what had happened by he feels too damn good.

So instead he gets his exercise book from his locker and draws in a little star.

He only needs two more and he is allowed to do an interview whenever the band next do press.

And so everybody else might be cracking up, but Rob can’t stop smiling.


	2. Aggravated

Chester sings yet another flat note and Brad can’t fucking take it anymore. He throws down his guitar pick and folds his arms over his chest awkwardly.

Everybody stops and Chester turns to glare. “We’re all waiting for you, Brad.”

“Well I’m personally waiting for you to start singing in tune, you chode.”

“Fuck you,” Chester hisses, lowering his microphone. “And what’s a chode, anyway?”

“It’s the space between your nut sack and your corn hole.” Brad tells him, matter-of-factly.

“That’s your gooch, you fucking idiot.”

“Guys, c’mon,” Mike says, ever the team building mother fucker. “Brad, what’s wrong?”

“Princess Bennington’s singing is flatter than a witch’s tit, that is what’s wrong.”

“Fuck you, Brad. The song is new.”

“I don’t give a fuck. Even I know the tune.”

“That’s surprising to me seeing as you have yet to hit a note.”

In the background Mike sighs. Maybe he says, take a break guys, but neither Brad nor Chester are listening.

Chester won’t look at him when he mumbles, “My singing isn’t that bad.”

And by now all the steam has gone out of the argument. So Brad just goes, “Whatever.” And, “chode.”


	3. Amused

People don’t notice but Rob gets bored easily. Maybe it’s because he is the youngest. Dave isn’t sure, but during long business meetings Rob stops listening and starts entertaining himself.

Like right now.

Where they are is a Music For Relief press conference. Where Rob’s mind is, well, who knows. He and Dave are crammed on the end of the long table with the press huddling like excited fans around Mike and Chester in the centre. And Rob, he’s holding up his index finger and thumb in front of his eyes, one squinting through the gap, the other screwed closed.

He watches intently as the drummer squeezes his fingers closer together then relaxes, moving his hand slightly.

“What are you doing?” Dave chuckles.

Rob starts, lowering his hand guiltily and blushing. “Pardon?”

Dave nods at Rob’s hand. “Just now, what were you doing?”

Embarrassed, Rob fidgets awkwardly. “Oh,” he says. “I was uh. They uh, they have tiny heads if you look through your fingers.” He takes Dave’s hand in his and lifts it, positioning his thumb and index finger correctly. Dave looks through them and squeezes the head of an enthusiastic journalist.

“Oh!” He laughs. “Okay I get it.”

Rob smiles, almost relieved. “Good.” He says, and picks up where he left off.


	4. Angry

Chester doesn’t know what he did this time but Brad is furious. The punch he throws knocks Chester off his feet so he assumes it’s something bad.

He gets to his feet clumsily and takes a deep breath. “I. You. You have to w-work through this. C-count to t-ten, Brad.”

Brad glares. “Count to ten? Who are you, my therapist?”

Chester cowers as Brad backs him against the wall, their lips brushing as he speaks. “He. He told me to h-help you.” In hindsight, he shouldn’t have said anything at all.

“Okay,” Brad says. “You can help me count to ten. Let me hear you say ‘one’.”

As obedient as ever, Chester says, “One.”

And Brad head-butts him.

“Two.”

“Two,” Chester whispers, and Brad grabs a handful of his hair, slamming his head back against the wall.

Three is a punch in the face. Four, a kick in the stomach. Five is Chester forced to his knees. Six is Brad getting a blowjob. Seven is Chester choking down Brad’s come. Eight is Chester being stripped of his clothes. Nine is Brad removing his own.

And ten is Brad panting, “Oh fuck. Yeah. Oh fuck yeah,” as he slams into Chester roughly.

And Chester doesn’t know what to think, later, of the counting thing.

But at least Brad isn’t angry, anymore.


	5. Annoyed

Someone ate his sandwich.

Probably it was Rob since he eats everything within a five mile radius of himself. It’s hard being annoyed with Rob, but Mike is really fucking hungry and refuses to eat any of Chester’s vegetarian bullshit.

Mike stomps to the back room and stands in front of the TV. Rob smiles placidly and looks up, “Auf wiedersehen Mike.”

He almost forgets what he wants as he stares into Rob’s dopey eyes. “Did you eat my sandwich?” He asks, eventually.

“Which one?”

“The one with my name on.”

“Yes,” Rob says. “Could you scooch over a little? I can’t see Dexter’s Lab from here.

“It…why did you eat it? It had my name on.”

“Because,” Rob says, stretching out to see around Mike. “I was hungry and friends share.”

This annoys Mike more because there’s really no more room for an argument.

“If you’re so bothered I’ll by you another.”

“Yeah you fucking will.” Mike snaps.

“Could you move now?”

Mike gawps at him for a second before stomping off. He’s still hungry but it can wait. This will make for the best blog post.


	6. Anxious

They’re on the subway in Japan when it happens. It’s been a while, and Chester thinks he has managed the few anxiety attacks he has had over the past year relatively well. Now, though, the crowds are pressing in on him and all he can do is reach out blindly to grab the back of Mike’s shirt and tug him off the train just before the doors close.

The train whizzes away from the station with the rest of the band on board and Mike watches it go before turning to him, bemused. Chester wonders what his facial expression says if it isn’t immediately obvious what is wrong. He opens his mouth to say something but his tongue is dry and huge and slug like and he just stands there, silently, as the Earth spins and spins and spins them all closer to death.

It takes him a moment to realise Mike is talking to him. “Huh?”

“Are you okay? You’re trembling.”

“Can we get out of here? Get some...see the daylight before it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?”

Chester isn’t sure, and certainly can’t articulate himself. But he doesn’t have to. Mike laces their fingers together and leads him to the exit.


	7. Apathy

Brad blows smoke rings at the ceiling and watches them be swept away as the fan spins lazily overhead. Chester drones on and on and on in the background and it makes Brad think of a car alarm, an air-raid siren – something he should care about but doesn’t. Can’t.

“God damnit, Brad,” Chester snaps, stamping his foot. The glitter of his plastic heels catch the light and the sequins from his dress make Brad feel like he is tripping.

“Sorry. What?”

“I said, should I wear a suit or a dress to this award show?”

Brad shrugs. “You’ll do whatever you want anyway, why ask me?”

“So that you can’t then pull the you-never-ask-me-for-my-opinion card when I pick the dress.”

Brad shrugs again. He does care, really. Somewhere deep inside he cares a whole lot about what Chester’s gender issues are doing to their relationship and the band. But some things are easier to just leave alone. And he can’t be bothered with an argument. He pulls the cigarette away from his mouth and exhales another chain of rings. “Do what you want,” he says. 

So Chester does.


	8. Artistic

As the date of Mike's art show approaches Rob sees less and less of him. When he comes to bed he smells like white spirit and paint and is too exhausted to manage more than a half-hearted handjob that leaves them both unsatisfied. It's not about the sex, really, but Rob is seriously starting to worry about Mike's well being.

"I think you need to take a break," Rob says as he enters the garage-cum-studio. "You've been in here for hours and the smell must be starting to kill your brain cells. Let's go for a walk, hit the beach."

Mike doesn't look up from where he is rolling naked in paint across the canvas. "Can't," he says, breathlessly. "Need to finish."

The impression left on the canvas from his body could be anything, or nothing. Rob has never really appreciated art but this is a whole new level of not understanding. He raises an eyebrow. "Okay, well, at least crack a window," he says. 

Mike gets up and nods, stopping only to urinate on the canvas. "Sure," he says, but Rob has already gone.


	9. Awake

It's four in the morning, and Chester can't sleep. He lies stretched out on top of the hotel bed sheets and thinks of Mike, the way he would be kicking his ass for tossing and turning right about now. Only Mike isn't here, and Chester isn't there. He has no idea what time it is in LA, and doesn't really want to be that person who calls, clingy and lonely at four in the morning. He always used to be that person, drunk and hyper and needing to speak to him rightfuckingnow, but he has worked hard to get away from that. Still, he didn't realise that touring with the Stone Temple Pilots would be so lonely.

He blinks and focuses on the patterns of the ceiling. A light on the smoke alarm blinks incessantly, and Chester can hear his own heart beating. 

Exhausted from the shows, drained from the road, but wide awake. He thinks of Mike. But he doesn't call. And the light blinks and blinks and blinks.


	10. Bitchy

They are gathered around the photocopier when Chester overhears them and feels immediately drawn into their conversation. 

“Did you know he is sleeping with someone?” The office assistant asks him as he starts feeding page after page of spreadsheets into the copier.

“Who?”

She rolls her eyes, looks at her colleague and then back at Chester. “You know, Shinoda.”

“As in, CEO Mike Shinoda?” Chester asks.

“Yeah,” the secretary butts in. “Apparently he is fucking someone who works here. I think it’s Kylie, that slut. ”

Chester tries not to laugh. “Yeah, probably. I can already see her on her knees in front of him,” he says. Even though he can’t. Even though his only thoughts of Mike Shinoda are of them both together, him bending Mike over his desk with the blinds closed and fucking him until he has to bite his fist.

“I knew she got those implants for a reason. He seems like a big-tit kind of guy.”

The opposite, actually, though he doesn’t complain when Chester wears women’s clothing and stuffs a bra. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, “and titty-fucking an A cup is like skating on grass.” He gathers his copies from the out tray and flashes his best smile at the dumb founded girls, sashaying across the room to Mike’s office, closing the door behind him.


	11. Blah

Mike knows he needs to get out of bed. He needs to do a lot of things, but he figured breaking it down to step-by-step instructions would make it easier. It doesn’t. He has his eyes open, so that’s a start. Bus call is at nine, so he has to get up soon if he wants to grab a shower and some breakfast. But he can’t move.

The scratches on the inside of his arms from last night itch. He feels like his skin is crawling. But, worst of all, he doesn’t really feel anything. He doesn’t feel sad, he doesn’t feel angry. He feels nothing. And that is worse. It is worse than the urge to punch a mirror, than the need to cut himself, than the desire to be fucked so hard he can’t walk.

So he lies there, eyes open and staring blankly at the telephone on the bedside table. He imagines picking it up, calling a cab to the airport and disappearing to another country. He would have a new life, without pills and self-harm and concerned friends. He could be happy.

But first. He has to get out of bed.


End file.
